


When The Wolf Comes Out (like a bullet in the dark)

by LadyLondonderry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Character Death, Curses, Drowning, Kidnapping, M/M, Nick Grimshaw Mentioned - Freeform, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Scenting, Simon Cowell Mentioned, Sort Of, Soulmates, Werewolves, but not graphic and he deserved it, in the form of, is VAGUELY IMPLIED, possibly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25953994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLondonderry/pseuds/LadyLondonderry
Summary: "So Dad was a..." Harry rolls the word around on his tongue, trying it out. "A werewolf?""In a sense, you could say that," Anne says. "It's certainly a more correct term than that vampire myth." She looks to Nick. "Grimshaw. Would you please explain exactly what the Madness entails?"Nick nods. Harry has never been on the receiving end of his business face before, and finds he's more than a little intimidated. “Right, well the first thing you need to know is that, except with freak mutations, the madness only actively infects one individual at a time. Since your grandfather’s death, your father has been dealing with it. Now that he’s gone, it’s presumably moved to you.”
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 21
Kudos: 188
Collections: 1D Mythical Fic Fest





	When The Wolf Comes Out (like a bullet in the dark)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This fic is one I started many, MANY years ago and I finally got the opportunity to finish it! Woo!
> 
> Near the end of writing this fic i realised I was envisioning Jenna Marbles' dog Bunny instead of a wolf in werewolfy situations. Please keep that in mind when you're reading it so you too can laugh.  
> Also I read the lyrics for Wolves right after this because I was looking for a title and DAMN first of all I came up with this idea before MitAM but it is on POINT this is unofficially a songfic now.

Harry's hiding in a storage closet.

There are spiders.

If even Buckingham Palace has spiders, surely there's no hope for the rest of the world.

Harry brushes a hand through his hair in a vain attempt to rid it of any spiders he might have disrupted when he settled among the mops and brooms. It's more than a little dusty. Is it someone's job to clean the closets full of cleaning supplies? There's an irony in that. At a later time, he'll reflect on that fact and create a genius pun of some kind. He's very good at puns. He's punny.

Now, however, is not the time to reflect on humour. Now is the time to think quiet thoughts and take a deep breath. He'll get through this. He just needs a couple minutes to himself first.

Storage closets are nice for such things.

It's been a tough month for Harry and his family. No, scratch that. The last month has been hell, not just for the members of the royal family but, understandably, for all of England. No one ever expects a heart attack to hit a member of the ruling class, least of all the King himself. It was painless, they said, happened in his sleep and sent him peacefully. Waking up in the morning to one less member of their family was devastating to all of them, but only got worse when it occurred to Harry just how public their mourning was about to be. Life became a place of press meetings, funeral plans, visiting dignitaries, moments caught at odd times to properly mourn in peace and preparations for the future coronation of his mother, Queen Anne, because the family's PR team argued that although she was already queen, this would instil her new role as sole reigning dignitary, and any close royals with claims to the throne will have to finally  _ give it a rest. _

It's been tough. Harry thinks he's justified in his moment of peace found among the royal spiders.

He's been summoned to yet another meeting, not even sure what this one is about, and at this point is probably holding up everyone else. hopefully he'll just be filled in on it all by his mother or sister at some point tonight.

A few servants call his name as their footsteps echo past his hiding spot. He checks his phone to find three missed calls from Gemma — okay, he's starting to feel a little guilty — and one text.

**GEMS:** _GET YOUR ARSE DOWN HERE NOW OR I WILL END YOU_

Maybe this was a bad meeting to decide to skip out on. He's about to get up to try to appease his sister's anger when the door to the closet is flung open and a terrifying older sister is bearing down on him.

"Haz," she says, "I will end you."

There's murder in her voice, Harry can sense it. He scrambles up to follow her and she gives a quick tug to his ear.

"Mum was worried," she says, "You know how she is. And since this thing's about you-"

"What?" Harry squeaks. "What do you mean about me? What'd I do?"

Gemma shrugs and speeds up a little as they walk through the corridors. "No clue, she wouldn't tell me more than that until you were there, and then you didn't even bother to show up!"

"I just wanted some time to myself," Harry moans. "It's been non-stop go for a month now! I don't even know the last time I got to see any of my friends."

Gemma gives him a sympathetic look but doesn't have time to reply as they've arrived at the appointed room. She shoves Harry through the door and follows him in.

It's one of their smaller, more intimate meeting rooms. An odd combination of Victorian and modern furniture and decoration. The high vaulted ceiling and chandelier match the claw footed table but contrast sharply with the leather wheelie chairs and laptops.

There's only three people sitting around the large table. At the far end is the queen herself, Anne, looking very regal and very tired. To one side of her is the man Harry recognises as the head of security and one of his father's personal advisors, Nick Grimshaw. Day to day, when Harry has seen Nick wandering throughout the buildings, he's noticed Nick's total lack of attention to any sort of dress code (half the time he even looks like he's woken up with horrible bedhead and then sprayed some hairspray into it to make it stick), but today he's wearing a well fitted suit and his hair is styled up into an immaculate quiff. Harry's first reaction is to ask who died, but he thinks it may be too soon for that joke.

On Queen Anne's other side is a man who looks much closer to Harry's age than Nick's. He's small and looks like he's trying to make himself smaller by the way he's hunching in his seat. He's got soft caramel hair and an outfit that suggests he's not quite got the money of most people who tend to hang around royalty.

"H, honey," Anne says, levelling him with a look. "Take a seat, we have something important to discuss."

The combination of the nickname and the serious note in her voice alerts Harry that this is definitely more serious than he originally thought. As Harry and Gemma take their places around the table, Anne motions to Grimshaw, who gets up and locks the door, double checking it before returning to his seat.

"That serious, Mum?" Gemma asks, her brows knitted in confusion.

"I’m afraid so, Gems," Anne sighs. "Now, the first thing you both need to know is that nothing said here today leaves this room. Is that clear?"

"'Course, Mum," Harry feels hurt that his mum would ever question their ability to refrain from gossip.

"Everyone who knows what we’re about to discuss is in this room, and have taken vows of secrecy," she says, motioning to Grimshaw and the boy who is staring at the table-top hard enough to burn a hole in it.

"What is this, are we going to war?" Gemma's voice is becoming closer to a shriek now, but the idea seems to make Anne smile.

"Thank goodness no, that's something we don't have to worry about. No, this is about the falsified circumstances of your father's death."

"Wh-what?" Harry stutters. Gemma has been shocked into silence, staring at her mother with wide eyes.

"Has he-" Harry tries again. "Has he been murdered?"

"No, no. Not quite." Anne takes a deep breath, looking haggard. "He was supposed to be the one to tell you this, not me. We were waiting until Harry came of age, we didn't want to have to burden you before we had to."

She looks close to tears and Harry wonders if it would be inappropriate to go over and give her a hug. The boy next to her is looking extremely uncomfortable. Anne takes a moment to compose herself and continues.

"There is a... Genetic condition that has been passed down in this family for as long as records have been kept. It only affects the males of the family, so, Harry, this is more important for you than for Gemma."

Harry's mouth has gone dry. "Mum-" he croaks. "Is that - what happened to Dad?" he feels dirty and he's not even sure why. What could possibly be so bad that it's a national secret?

"Oh sweetie," Anne says, and reaches out to grasp his hand. "it's a perfectly manageable condition," she says. "The Styles family has dealt with it for hundreds of years and the only reason you need to be informed of it now is that your father has passed away, the disease will have been passed on to you."

"That's not how diseases work," Gemma cuts in, always the refreshingly practical one.

"This disease isn't a common one," Anne says, not dissuaded by her daughter's outburst. "It's gone through a number of names over the years and created a number of urban legends, the most common of which being vampires and werewolves."

This has to be a sick joke. The most messed up prank of all time. Harry wonders for a moment if he's still dreaming. Perhaps he's in a coma. He feels a little dizzy. He looks around, trying to gauge everyone's reactions to figure out his own.

Gemma is staring at Anne with a look of shock that says she doesn't believe any of this, which Harry gets some relief from; at least he's not the only one confused. Anne is still as calm and regal as ever, she's always had the best poker face even at the worst of royal scandals. She wouldn't pull something like this as a joke though, right? Not at a time like this.

It's Nick, though, who convinces Harry this is real. This isn't the Nick who playfully smacks his bum in the hallway and mimes singing to Katy Perry on the way to social functions. This is the Nick who works through the night to cover up cheating scandals and threatens opposing forces with more blackmail than any one person should have access to. This is the Nick who makes it his job to know everybody's darkest secrets before they themselves know.

"So Dad was a..." Harry rolls the word around on his tongue, trying it out. "A werewolf?"

"In a sense, you could say that," Anne says. "It's certainly a more correct term than that vampire myth." She looks to Nick. "Grimshaw. Would you please explain exactly what the Madness entails?"

Nick nods. Harry has never been on the receiving end of his business face before, and finds he's more than a little intimidated. “Right, well the first thing you need to know is that, except with freak mutations, the madness only actively infects one individual at a time. Since your grandfather’s death, your father has been dealing with it. Now that he’s gone, it’s presumably moved to you.”

Harry can barely remember his grandfather, having attended his funeral when he was six. That had been almost eleven years ago, what had his father been dealing with all this time without his knowing?

“There are absolutely no effects from the Madness except on the night of the full moon, which is where the idea of werewolves has originated. Now it’s all really a simple procedure. One night a month, you’ll be sleeping in a safe secluded room, with a personal guard whose job it is to ensure that everything runs smoothly.”

He leans forward, glancing around the Queen at the boy on her other side. The boys is looking back at him with wide eyes and Harry thinks he looks a little sick. Harry can relate to the feeling.

“The position of guard has, traditionally, been passed down through a single family, in order to keep things running smoothly as quietly as possible. I presume you remember Mr. Austen?”

Harry blinks. “Dad’s advisor?” Of course he remembers the man, he was practically his father’s shadow, was with him constantly. In all honesty, Harry had never really liked him; he had always seemed a little off. A little sinister.

“Yes, that’s him. His job as an advisor was really only second to his job as your father’s guard, however. And this,” Nick motions to the boy. “Is his son, Louis Tomlinson, whom he had been training as his replacement.”

The boy – Louis – looks to Harry for the first time. Harry is taken aback for a moment by just how blue his eyes are. Then he’s taken aback by the amount of fear he sees in Louis’ eyes. Is Harry really the cause of that? He wants to tell him that he couldn’t hurt a fly; hell, he cried for a month when his pet beta fish died. But maybe he can’t say that for sure anymore. Does he truly know that he can’t hurt a fly? Is he safe?

“Now unfortunately,” Nick continues, snapping Harry out of his train of thought. “As Louis’s father has passed away prematurely, he has missed out on a bit of training. Because of this, we will be putting two extra guards outside your room on the first night, only as a precaution of course.” He levels Harry with a look. “Now, any questions?”

“Yeah,” Gemma butts in, and Harry startles, having almost forgotten she was there. “Saying we believe all of this nonsense about ‘the Madness’ or whatever we’re calling it, how did Dad really die? It wasn’t the flu, was it?”

Nick shakes his head. “We’re not sure exactly what went on, but the situation was clearly compromised. From what we can gather, your father broke free and went after Austen who, in order to keep him from getting to others in the palace, shot him. In the end, both died in the fight.”

A shocked silence takes hold of the table as Harry and Gemma digest this new information. No wonder Louis looked at him like that, Harry thinks as the boy across from him trains his eyes on the tabletop again. He did lose a father at the same time that Harry did, but now was inheriting that same horrible position. Harry’s own father, a murderer of a man Harry had known all his life.

Harry turns and retches into the bin behind him.

A hand begins rubbing his back in a soothing motion, and he recognises his mum’s voice cooing in his ear, working to calm him down. All he can think, though, is how she shouldn’t be this close to him; no one should be this close to him again, his father was a monster and now apparently all he’ll ever be is a monster as well.

“H, baby, look at me. Come on.” Anne’s hands frame his face and pull him up to face her. “This changes nothing about you. You are Harry Edward Styles, Duke of Wales and you are stronger than this, do you hear me?”

Harry blinks tears from his eyes and meekly nods his head. His mum envelopes him in a hug, warm and safe, before standing back up and returning to the table, Harry shakily doing the same after a moment.

“Now,” Anne says, her voice strong and commanding. “Here’s what this means. Harry, you will spend one night a month with Tomlinson in a room in the east wing of the palace. The rest of the time, Tomlinson will be trained as your advisor, just as his father was, so that he can be needed in cases of emergency.” She looks Harry in the eye. “There will be no emergency, there has never been an emergency.” She looks at Gemma. “When you have children, your eldest son will also have the Madness. Someday in the distant future, when I am long dead and buried, Harry will pass away and your son – or his son – will have to do this same thing. We are the Styles family, the reigning Monarchs of England, and we will carry on with our heads held high. Is that clear?”

Gemma nods.

“Good. Now, as I said, nothing said in this room leaves this room. Grimshaw, do you have anything else to add?”

Nick shakes his head. “That fairly well sums it up. Harry, the full moon is in three days. Louis will find you then.”

“Well,” Anne says. She stands, signalling that everyone is formally dismissed. “Harry, Gemma, I’ve requested butternut squash soup for dinner tonight. Do what you will until then.”

She leaves, and Nick and the boy — Louis — follow immediately after.

Harry sits in silence with Gemma for a long time. 

— 

Harry doesn’t get a lot of sleep for the next two nights. 

He tries, but the nightmares are constant, invading his thoughts both while he’s awake and asleep and draining him of his energy. The world feels like a completely different place now than it was a few days ago; a place with terrible secrets and fears and the knowledge that he himself is a danger. 

Gemma tries to distract him. She seeks him out more than usual, is kinder than an older sister is meant to be. Harry appreciates it, but in the end she does nothing to help quiet his racing thoughts.

It’s almost a relief when there’s a knock at the door to his chambers at exactly six in the evening. With his heart hammering in his chest, Harry opens the door to reveal Louis, standing on the other side and looking just as frightened as he had in that meeting.

“Hello, your highness,” he says. Harry notes his voice, crisp like autumn leaves but with a tremor of nerves. 

“You can call me Harry,” Harry says. He doesn’t know what’s about to happen, what Louis’ been trained to do, but he doesn’t want to make things any more awkward than they have to be. 

Louis nods, looking at the ground. He looks like he’s chewing on the inside of his cheeks. “Alright,” he says. 

“Do I— is this outfit alright?” Harry asks. He’s dressed down, in just sweats and a thin long sleeved shirt. It’s not something that the public would ever see him wearing. Louis’ outfit is only a little more formal, pressed trousers and a simple red shirt. 

“Um, I think so,” Louis says, his eyes sweeping over Harry’s form. “I’m sorry, I— I was never around for this sort of thing with my dad. I only know it in theory.” He pulls a face, showing teeth. “I don’t know what level of professionalism you expect from me, but if I do anything to offend you, please let me know.”

“I mean, I wasn’t aware of any of this, obviously,” Harry says. He’s finding that his own nerves are, miraculously, a fraction better as he’s focusing on making Louis more at ease instead of becoming more stressed by how in over their heads they might both be. “But I think we’re well past the time for formalities, yeah? You know something about me even my friends that sneak into the gardens and smoke with me don’t know, I think that counts for something.”

A small smile  _ does _ start to play at the corners of Louis’ mouth at that, and Harry considers it a win. 

“Right,” says Louis, sounding just a touch more confident. “Uh, we should get down there. There’s no real danger until after the sun sets, which shouldn’t be for a few hours yet, but I thought, you know, with it being the first night and all…”

Harry nods. “Yes,” he says. “I agree. It’s not like I’ve been able to think about anything else anyway.”

Louis exhales a soft laugh. “That makes both of us,” he says.

Harry trails slightly behind Louis as they make their way to the east wing of the palace. He thinks furtively about topics of conversation but everything is a bit dwarfed next to, ‘so you’re here to make sure that I am under control as I turn into a monster for the night, how do you feel about that?’ and also, ‘oh, so my dad killed your dad, let’s talk about that’. 

So he instead settles back into the same looping thought pattern of  _ oh god oh no everything is terrible and I don’t know what’s going to happen. _

Harry realises when they’ve reached the room because, just as Anne had said, two guards stand on either side of the door. Harry wonders what they’ve been told, but their stoic faces as they stare past him and Louis keep him from asking. 

Louis pushes the door inward and then holds it open for Harry to enter afterward. The chandelier high above them isn’t a fancy one, and one of its bulbs has gone out, although Harry can’t imagine that it would make that much of a difference, what with the high ceilings and dark choice of maroon patterned wallpaper. 

The room itself is small, certainly smaller than his own bedroom, and their footsteps echo as Louis closes the door behind them. It’s incredibly intimidating, though, because the only piece of furniture present is a large throne, right in the center of the room and with every leg bolted to the floor. 

It looks like it was once beautiful, designs carved going up all the legs and arms, and chipped gold paint still covering most of it. But it’s been modified, and Harry’s mouth goes dry as he sees what looks to be modifications of cuffs on the arms and legs. 

He jumps when Louis speaks up, having felt for a moment that he was alone. “I just want you to know,” Louis says, “that I didn’t know my father well.”

“What?” Harry asks, struggling to connect what Louis’ said and the scene before him. 

“I was told when I was very young that I would have to someday do my father’s job in the palace,” he says, walking up and standing next to Harry, also facing the throne. “But my father wasn’t a part of my life. I only truly started to get to know him a few years ago when I first came to the palace to see what I’d someday be doing.”

“Oh,” says Harry. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t know what he’s sorry for. That Louis never knew his dad? Or that he’s forced to be here now?

“Did you know him?” Louis asks. 

“Who, your father?”

“Yeah,” Louis looks over at him. “I mean, you don’t have to answer that. You’re the prince.”

“You’d be surprised what that means I do have to answer,” Harry says. “But, I mean… He was always around. I saw him a lot. I don’t know that I ever actually talked to him, though. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” says Louis. “You didn’t know.”

“I feel stupid for not having known,” Harry says. “Since you apparently did.”

The room feels stiflingly warm. 

“Listen,” Louis turns his whole body to look at Harry this time. “This is going to be scary, yeah? I think for both of us. But it’s just tonight, and then you won’t have to see me again until next month, and we can pretend that everything is completely normal.”

“Are you worried I’m going to hurt you?” Harry blurts out.

Louis shrugs. “Yeah,” he says. “But only because I never saw my dad in action. Fear of the unknown, you know?” he reaches out a hand toward Harry, as if to comfort him, and then drops it. “But you won’t, though.”

_ He has no way to know that, _ Harry thinks. But what he says is, “promise?”

“Yeah,” says Louis. Then he smiles. “I’m an older brother,” he says. “I’ve been in my fair share of fights.”

Harry wonders what Gemma is doing right now. 

He wonders what happens if he dies before Gemma has a son. 

He tries not to think about that.

“Tell me what to do?” he asks.

— 

The process is simple. It feels too simple, it feels too easy. Harry worries. 

He also feels like he looks ridiculous.

Louis instructs him to sit on the throne, which Harry does. It seems like it was built for someone much bigger than him. 

The cushions on the seat and back are red velvet, but also threadbare. The back is high and straight and Harry immediately slouches forward. 

Louis kneels in front of him and, slowly, carefully, attaches cuffs to his ankles. They’re thick leather underneath a metal band that links to the legs of the chair. He rights himself a little and then does the same with cuffs on Harry’s wrists, linked to the ends of the arm rests.

It feels uncomfortably intimate, somehow. 

“They seem… shouldn’t they be tighter?” Harry asks. He feels almost as if he could slip out of them if he tried hard enough.

“I was told to leave room,” Louis says. “That they’ll get tighter when it happens.”

“Oh,” says Harry. 

Louis stands and takes a step back. 

The room feels cloaked in a deafening silence. 

“Can the guards outside hear us, do you think?” Harry asks. 

Louis shakes his head. “Soundproof,” he says, motioning in general at the walls.

Harry wonders how long it’ll be until he feels the need to piss. 

“I should’ve brought my phone,” he says after a moment. “We could play music.”

Louis snorts out a laugh. “I’ll remember that for next time,” he says. “Maybe when we’re both not so terrified, yeah?”

It feels good, that they’re both terrified. It’s a together thing.

Now just… to wait. 

— 

The waiting is bad. 

The sun doesn’t set until nearly eight, and Harry has no idea of the time. There’s no windows in this room, no way to know how far along they are. Louis paces and Harry sits and sometimes Louis stands still, and Harry watches him, because there’s nothing else he can do. 

It feels like an entire day goes by, and Harry is an anxious mess.

Louis must know so much more than him. He should’ve asked his mum for more details. Did she even truly have more details? Did his dad tell her anything? What must she have thought, when she married into this family and found out? What must Louis have thought when he was told? 

He drowns in his thoughts as Louis paces. 

He tries the meditation that he’s learned from youtube videos, but keeps getting distracted by the fact that he can't even cross his legs, or scratch an itch. His whole body feels stiff.

But then, he realises, that might be something else.

“Uh,” he says. “Louis?”

Louis stops his pacing and looks at him. They’ve been existing in silence for so long. “Yeah?”

“I think the sun is setting,” Harry says. He feels fear. But he also feels stiff, because there’s  _ more _ of him than before, he feels like he’s gone through a growth spurt in a matter of minutes.

“Okay,” says Louis. He takes a half a step back, eyes locked with Harry’s. “It’s alright.”

“Is it?” asks Harry as his fingers scrabble for purchase against the armrests. They feel swollen. “Because I think I’m about to turn into a hideous monster and try to kill you.”

“You might,” says Louis. “But that’s okay. You’ll be normal afterward, I think.”

“And I won’t kill you?” Harry asks, desperate for reassurance.

“I won’t let you kill me,” Louis says, which feels like sort of a ridiculous statement to make but it’s a bit of comfort, still.

Harry takes in a deep breath as a prickling starts all over his body. His vision feels cloudy, unfocused. Everything feels cloudy, really. Like it’s getting harder to process… anything. 

He hunches forward because it’s more comfortable, and his shirt is  _ way _ too tight. His fingers are curled and then he looks at them, they don’t look like his fingers anymore. His hands don’t look like his hands.

His body doesn’t feel like his body.

But he can hear with intense clarity the sound of his shirt ripping at the seams. 

Harry feels like he gets lost inside himself for a while after that. His wrists and ankles are rooted but the rest of him floats freely, unaware of anything. His thoughts and feelings are simple things, and he just accepts them as truths.

The place he is in is toasty warm, and he is being kept. He feels uncomfortable, his arms stretched awkwardly in front of him and his legs stretched down. He huffs out hot breaths into the already hot air and feels his fur tickle at the movement. 

He sniffs, and smells the  _ old _ of the room. The  _ ancient _ of this place, much older than him. But he also smells something else.

Something  _ amazing. _

He whines, because it’s the only sound he knows how to make. He looks left and right, strains to see where that scent is coming from. 

When he does, he has to wait a moment for his vision to focus. It is… a human.

It is  _ his _ human.

Harry  _ knows _ this is his human. He whines, and scrabbles at his confinement. That is  _ his _ human, what is his human doing  _ over there? _ Why are they apart, what has he done wrong?   
He whines and his claws scratch against the already worn down wood of the chair. He growls because he feels desperate. Something is  _ wrong, _ why are they not together? Why is his human standing there, so far away, with a scent like fear in his heart? 

Harry must protect him.

Harry  _ can't _ protect him.

He howls in frustration, a deafening noise that shakes the chandelier. When he moves, sometimes the metal of the chains to his cuffs grazes his skin and  _ burns, _ and he pulls back, struck. 

He can do nothing, but he fights, because his human is  _ right there _ and all he desires is to be with him, to keep him safe.

The night passes slowly.

— 

The sun rises just after seven in the morning, not that Harry can see that in the windowless room. 

He knows it’s happened, though, because there is a clarity to his thoughts. He knows it’s happened because he looks down and sees pale skin, worn red around the cuffs, and spindly little fingers.

There is a haze in his memory, and at the moment he’s too tired to think about it.

Louis is there, though. He is looking at Harry with wide eyes, and Harry wonders what he must look like to him now.

“Louis?” he croaks. His throat is scratchy and dry.

“Yeah,” says Louis. “Are you back?”

Harry nods. “I think so,” he says. “How will I know?”

“I think this is you knowing,” says Louis. He steps forward and pauses. “Can I…?”

“Please,” says Harry. “I mean, I wont— I wont just turn back again, right?”

“Not after the sunrise,” Louis says. “Never after the sunrise.”

“Okay,” says Harry. His shirt is in tatters. He liked that shirt.

Louis approaches him with the caution of someone approaching a wounded animal, and Harry tries to stay still, to not spook him in return. 

Louis gingerly undoes all of his cuffs, and then backs up quickly as Harry stretches his sore joints. 

“Was it… how was it?” Louis asks.

There’s a lot in Harry’s mind right now, the haze of the night clearing only a little, and he doesn’t think he can begin to say what he remembers. He says instead, “Long.”

“Yeah,” breathes Louis.

“Was I… were you scared of me?” Harry asks.

He looks like he was, but Louis just says, “Only of what I didn’t know.”

“What didn’t you know?” Harry asks.

“You watched me,” Louis says. “I mean, probably because I was the only one in the room, but… you kept watching me.”

_ I did, _ Harry thinks.  _ I remember. _

Louis waits for Harry to get himself rather together before unlocking the door with a key from his pocket, and opening it for him to leave. They walk only a short ways together, past the two guards and down the hall, before Louis leaves one way and Harry the other. 

Then, it’s the end until the next month.

— 

Harry spends a lot of time thinking.

It’s a different kind of thinking than he was doing before. Before, it was all fear. It was the unknown coming to get him, invading his thoughts with  _ what if’s. _ Now, it’s thinking about what happened. What happened to  _ him _ . And wondering if he’s supposed to have remembered it.

And wishing that his dad was still here, so he could ask him.

Because, even in those first few minutes when he and Louis were still together in that isolated room, he had sort of known. His memory had become clearer since then, but he had known from the beginning that what he had turned into, the  _ monster _ that he had become, wanted nothing more than to get to Louis, to protect him.

Why?

Was this what always happened? Was this how it was supposed to go? The “Madness” is a condition that has been passed down through his bloodline for generations. Did he somehow get the pacifist strain of it, or does he become dangerous later?

Oh god,  _ does _ he become dangerous later?

He wants to talk to someone about it, but who would that even be? Gemma is very resolutely acting like nothing has happened, and his mum is dealing with so much, he doesn’t want to burden her with more. It’s a grand secret that’s been hidden for so long, it doesn’t feel  _ right _ to talk about it with anyone.

So it eats him up inside, as he goes through all the usual royal things that need doing, the charities and the organizations and the pap walks. He tries to pretend like nothing has changed, while inside he’s replaying over and over again, the intense feelings of  _ need _ he had felt in his heart.

What  _ was _ that?

— 

Harry doesn’t see Louis at all until the second night it happens, when Louis knocks on his door again.

He still comes at six, but the sun is setting earlier now, later in the year. Harry’s checked; he’s charted it out on his calendar when the full moons and sunsets are. 

He’s also wearing a sleeveless shirt he doesn’t care as much about, because he’s coming prepared this time.

“Hello,” he says when he opens the door.

“Hello,” says Louis. Louis sounds less timid this time around, which is a good start. 

“Are you feeling better than last time?” Harry asks. 

“I think so,” says Louis. “Less fear of the unknown, right?”

“Right,” says Harry. He steps out and shuts the door behind him, and makes an effort to walk next to Louis instead of trailing after him. 

“So what do you do with the rest of your time?” he asks. 

Louis’ hands are in his pockets. He looks over at Harry with a half smile. “You seem less scared this time too,” he says.

“I’m trying,” says Harry with a shrug.

“I mean I don’t live in the palace yet,” says Louis. “Got a brood of siblings and I’d rather spend as much time with them while I still can, you know? They’re not kids forever and if I abandon them entirely they’re gonna grow up thinking the wrong stuff is cool. Like ska music.”

Harry lets out a honking laugh and then covers his mouth. “Couldn’t have that,” he says. 

“Right,” says Louis. “And half of them are convinced they’re not going to go to sixth form or do university because I’m skipping out on that, and it’s like, yeah, but I’m still planning on doing online schooling when I get the chance, you know? Education’s important and you’re, like, eleven, so I don’t think you should be making any big decisions right now.”

“You didn’t do sixth form?” Harry asks.

Louis shrugs. “I mean I started it, but this is sort of a full time gig now. They want me to be someone who’s able to be around you at all times in case something happens, right? So I need to be trained as like, an advisor or whatever.”

“Oh,” says Harry. “I mean. Do you  _ want _ to be an advisor?”

Louis’ quiet for a minute and then he shrugs. “It pays,” he says. “And I guess if I can influence national decision making that might be kind of cool, but no offence, I feel like there are more fun jobs out there.”

“Like what?”

Louis snorts. “What, think someone following you around is the most interesting job in the world?”

“No,” Harry pouts. “Just want to know what you’d  _ actually _ like to do.”

“Think I’d like to be a teacher, actually,” Louis says. “But maybe not a teacher. Like a professor. I want to work at a university myself and convince stuck up rich pricks that they’re missing vital life skills by relying on money as a personality trait.”

Harry grimaces. They’re arriving at the room of the east wing, and this time around there are no guards present. “I… think you may be insulting me right now, but I’m honestly not sure.” 

Louis laughs again, a low  _ heh heh heh. _ “Maybe if you think that, it’s a sign I am. But nah, I just mean those lads who went to Eton or whatever and think that entitles them to rule the world.”

(Harry is glad that he’s in Marlborough). 

The room is less intimidating this time, although it  _ is _ still intimidating. The throne is still too large when he sits in it, and the cuffs around his wrists and ankles are heavy when Louis puts them on. 

“Oh, I was going to bring music,” Louis says as an afterthought.

“Were you?” asks Harry. He somehow had thought Louis might’ve disliked the idea.

“Well it was a good idea,” Louis says frankly, and Harry beams. 

“Next time,” he says. 

It happens sooner this time, and Harry’s more aware of the little things when it starts, the way he feels a little uncomfortable, stiff and sore, but also the way everything smells a bit stronger, the way he can feel the vibrations from Louis’ footsteps. 

His last coherent thought is that they should put a clock in the room.

Then all it is is  _ feelings  _ and  _ sensations _ and the ripping of his shirt, still too small once his frame has expanded. He’s uncomfortable and keeps trying to move his limbs about, reorder them until they make sense, but he can’t and he whines. The chains connecting his cuffs brush against his skin and he whines then too. But then he’s distracted because his human is there, his human is in front of him, and Harry just wants to be  _ close _ to him, wants to be  _ around _ him, wants to be  _ protection. _

His human is here but he’s out of his reach, and Harry howls in frustration. 

And so the second night goes.

— 

There are little nicks around his wrists and ankles, Harry notices a few days later.

He thinks back and remembers the way the thick metal links that make up the chains of the cuffs grazed against his skin, and he wonders what they’re made of. He’s never been allergic to any sort of metal before. 

He considers going back to that room and looking at the metal, trying to figure out what kind it is, but that seems so  _ weird _ to do. It’s not a place he feels like he can go under normal circumstances. It’s a place he goes on the full moon and the rest of the time pretends doesn’t exist.

But he does spend a whole afternoon one day googling common werewolf myths. He wonders what’s true, and where they got their information from, and then wonders if it’s silver, if he’s now deathly allergic to silver.

But he has a silver ring among the collection on his dresser, and when he tentatively picks it up, he doesn’t feel anything. Same when he slides it onto his finger.

Then he feels rather ridiculous for trying. Obviously he would’ve noticed before now if he had a silver allergy. 

He puts it out of his mind, and spends the next month thinking about Louis. Wondering about his reaction to Louis. It felt more natural this time, like it wasn’t a surprise that as soon as he changed the first thing he did was locate Louis. It was what he was supposed to do.

He worries less this month, but wonders more. 

— 

The next month, Louis brings music. 

Well, he brings his phone, with a Spotify playlist downloaded (because a soundproof room doesn’t pick up a wifi signal well). 

“What do you want?” Louis asks, staring at his phone screen as Harry gingerly sits down on the throne. “Heavy metal? Rock? Top forties?”

“You don’t seem like a top forties guy,” Harry remarks.

“I’m not, but I’m also not a member of the royal family who from time to time turns into a werewolf.”

“Well you don’t have to brag,” Harry says. “Uh. I like top forties. Do you have…  _ Abba _ ?”

“ _ Abba _ hasn’t been top forty for a few decades, but I think I’ve got some downloaded,” he says, scrolling. “Alright, I’ve got a greatest hits, here you go.”

The sound is a bit tinny and odd in the echoey room, but hearing  _ Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! _ playing in the little isolation room has Harry almost immediately cracking up.

“If you’re laughing at my choice then I’m turning it off and we get no music at all,” Louis warns as he starts to cuff Harry’s ankles.

“Absolutely not, it’s wonderful,” Harry says. “Just a fucking bizarre circumstance.”

“Well you’re not wrong there.”

And it was, but not nearly as bizarre as the moment about half an hour later when Harry starts feeling himself change to the tune of  _ Mamma Mia. _

He’s almost completely changed when he starts to feel a burning on one hand. He sucks in a breath, it’s hard to think around the feeling clouding his mind, the intense feeling of pain around one finger. Looking down he realises, still enough of his human mind to realise, that he’s wearing that ring.

He’d taken to wearing it after that day nearly a month ago, just a fun habit because he does enjoy his rings. 

It’s burning now, and no matter what Harry does he can’t force it off, his fingers stiff and unwieldy. The noise that comes out of his mouth, a pained sort of yowl, gets his human’s attention immediately.

He rarely gets his human’s attention like this. 

_ “Harry? What’s wrong?” _ his human asks, but Harry can’t fully understand, not really. He just works his hand, desperately, hoping to slide the piece of metal off, break it off,  _ something. _ It smells burnt, now, has singed off his fur. 

His human speaks again and he sounds scared but Harry has no clue what he’s saying, is just worried that he’s scared, too. He shouldn’t be scared, Harry is here to protect him, maybe  _ could _ protect him if not for the pain in his hand, the relentless pain.

But then his human, his person, is  _ close, _ right there in front of him, and Harry tries to still himself as much as possible. Do not scare him away, do not frighten him.

His human reaches out and touches, gently and with a trembling hand, Harry’s finger. He says something else, something much more frantic sounding than the scared, trembling movements, and then he’s touching the burning metal, and Harry’s worried that he’ll burn too, but he doesn’t seem to.

Then the metal is off, and Harry can  _ breath _ and the pain is gone, a memory, a burned stripe on his finger, and his human is backing away from him with wide eyes.

And Harry grieves the distance but is happy his human seems to care for him. 

He howls less, that night.

— 

“So, we don’t do silver anymore,” Louis says the next morning.

“Yeah,” says Harry. There’s a bright red stripe of burned flesh wrapped around his finger.

His shirt is also torn. 

He feels embarrassed.

— 

One would not think that turning into a werewolf would ever become mundane, but it does become just another part of the routine, and Harry has other things to worry about. Finals and his mum’s coronation and the boy his sister is secretly dating.

So, it does. It becomes just another part of life, for a while. Harry starts to see Louis around the palace on odd occasions, like at the large dinners his mum has planned leading up to the coronation, where every member of the royal family is invited which means, inevitably, that Harry will have to sit next to Simon, because it’s always arranged by order of succession and Harry honestly isn’t even quite sure how Simon is related to them but he’s heard time and again just how close Simon feels he is to the crown.

Not that he would  _ do _ anything about it, of course. He just likes to know. And for everyone else to know. 

But Louis’ at the table now too, further down but within earshot and always seated with some of Harry’s youngest nieces and nephews (which, sidenote, Louis is  _ great _ with kids). 

So Harry sees Louis from time to time, and he spies on his sister and her dates from time to time, and he pretends to revise for maths while actually watching Teen Wolf, because that show so far seems terribly incorrect but he started it on a whim and it’s rather addicting. 

And on the night of the full moon, Louis appears a little earlier each time because of the winter solstice and the earlier sunsets, and Harry… well, Harry stops wearing a shirt. It’s just a waste. 

— 

“Do you think you’ll tell your spouse about this when you get married?” Harry asks.

Louis, who is scrolling through his phone because he’s adamant it’s  _ his _ turn to pick the music, looks up. “I mean, I’ll tell them I have a job at the palace,” he says. “But I’m pretty sure it’d be considered a crime against the crown if I told anyone else, since we all took vows and all that.”

“I didn’t take a vow,” Harry says thoughtfully. “I could tell them for you, if you want.”

“What,  _ hello, just popping round to tell you I turn into a wolf on the full moon and your husband is a dogsitter? _ Yeah, I’m sure that’ll not end up in the press or anything.”

“I mean, you could marry someone who already knows,” Harry says. “My sister’s dating a dork, I think you’d be a bit better than him.”

“No offence, Harry, but your sister really isn’t my type.”

“What’s your type?”

Louis looks him dead in the eye. “Dick,” he says.

Harry guffaws. 

“Alright,” he says after recovering. “Grimshaw, then. Is he still single?”

“Can’t imagine anyone would’ve married him,” Louis mutters. “Nah, I’m good. If I ever find a proper spouse I’ll just tell them I’m an accountant. No one cares about what accountants do.”

Harry grimaces. “That’s true, just saying that I felt my eyes glaze over a bit.”

Louis puts on  _ The Streets _ and lays down on his back, looking up at the chandelier high above him. “Not like anyone would really understand even if I told them,” he says.

— 

Two months later, and just before Harry’s birthday, the day of the full moon arrives and Louis does not. 

Sunset is just before six, so Harry expects him to appear around five, but he… just doesn’t.

Harry starts getting truly worried around five fifteen. He questions why he never exchanged numbers with Louis.

At five thirty, feeling pangs of worry and not knowing what else to do, Harry leaves his room and goes to the isolation room by himself. 

Louis isn’t there either, like Harry had rather hoped he would be. He doesn’t… know what he’s supposed to do, now. They’ve never talked about what would happen in an emergency. Louis was supposed to be there for anything. He was supposed to be the one taking responsibility for things like this!

He doesn’t have the key to lock the door, so he just leaves it closed. He sits on the throne and looks at the cuffs. They don’t require a key, but since they take two hands, he can’t do the ones on his wrists. Feelings a deep sense of confusion and dread, he cuffs his ankles and then just… waits. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen, but keeps looking at the door, hoping that Louis will just come bursting through, apologise for being late, explain that a sibling had an emergency.

But that doesn’t happen. 

What does happen is that Harry feels himself going stiff, he knows that he’s starting to change, and is struck with terror of what he might do. He should’ve made a run for it, he thinks as he hunches forward. He should’ve tried to just get as far from the palace as possible. He should’ve found a room, any room, with a lock, or gone to Gemma or— or Nick for help.

He panics but it’s far too late to do anything, and he doubles over, his body finally able to take on its natural shape without cuffs on his wrists holding him back. He ends up on the hardwood floor, on all fours, the cuffs on his hind legs the only reason he’s not bolting out the door.

Because he can  _ feel, _ he can  _ sense _ that something is wrong with his human.

He howls and kicks at his back legs, trying to shake the cuffs. Growling, he turns around to bite at the chain, only to stop when it burns his mouth. His human is— his human is in danger. He knows this. He knows this deep inside of him, and yet he is  _ held here. _

He kicks and he struggles and he makes noises that would scare any hiker in the dead of night, and what finally gives, in the end is the throne itself.

The wood splinters and breaks and the whole thing comes down in one massive  _ crash, _ toppling forward into the space Harry only just jumps away from. The cuffs are still around his ankles but the chains are dangling free, no longer attached to anything. They hurt where they slap against his legs but he can't think about that now.

He can't think about that because all that’s going through his mind is the knowledge that his human is somewhere, and not with him, and not safe.

The door is easier to get open, he has enough human sensibilities about him to go for the handle with his teeth, tugging it back with almost no issues.

The hallway is empty, people are rarely in this wing of the palace, but never on nights like tonight. Harry is alone, and Harry is  _ running. _

He knows what direction his human is in, has always been able to know, in this form, has spent months becoming linked more closely with his scent, with his self, with  _ him. _ He knows the direction his human is in, but doesn’t know exactly how far.

So he runs, four legs galloping against the hardwood of the hallways, and then his whole self hurling against a door, a small door, feeling it splinter under his weight. 

Outdoors the world is dark and cold, the grass beneath his paws just on the edge of frosted. It’s cooling to the back of his hind legs where the chains are still making contact. His pants come out in whispy gasps. 

His human is still ahead.

He runs through the grounds, through areas that would be lush and green in the summer, along next to a winding path. It’s here that he begins to pick up the scent of his human, not just the sense of his presence. It smells scared, and Harry howls in response. He wants him to know that he is here, that he will  _ protect, _ that he will keep safe.

He howls again, stronger and deeper.

The wind whips around him, stirring him on but losing the scent. He knows that there’s water up ahead, though. At the edge of the estate sits a pond, nestled among dense foliage in summer, but now strikingly out in the open, with only a few naked trees at the edge.

Harry can see the trees now, as he approaches, and he knows that there is someone else there among them.

He howls again and sees the person freeze, crouching. Even with the wind working against his nose, he knows that this human  _ isn’t _ his human.

This human is not one to be trusted.

This human is a danger.

Harry growls, deep in his throat. His legs haven’t slowed but he’s not used to this sort of movement for so long. He’s not as fast as he could be, not as fast as he  _ should _ be, and the enemy is here. 

So close he can smell the fish beneath the water’s surface, Harry lunges at this human. This human is  _ scared _ but he is  _ angry _ and Harry can feel rage boiling inside. He doesn’t know how, but this human has hurt his human, he is sure of that. He lunges with his teeth and tears at flesh, hears the guttural cry of the human as they tumble one over the other into the murky blackness of the pond. 

Harry’s limbs lock up. His body is in shock at the temperature. It takes precious moments of lack of breath for him to force his legs to work again, to propel him upward. 

He breaks the surface of the water and swims with jagged strokes toward the edge of the pond, his whole body feeling like shock. He can’t smell his human because he can’t smell anything, he can barely see. But he can sense him. He can sense him so close.

Harry drags himself up the bank and, near collapsing, catches sight of a pile where the rocks turn to grass. He drags himself over, noses at the pile. It’s a brown, scratchy material, and his human is inside.

He whines, draws his lips back and rips his teeth into the material, sticking his nose inside and colliding with hair. That is his human. That is his person.

There is no strength left in him, cold and shaking, but Harry rips the rest of the material away. His human is asleep, his eyes half closed, his lips just parted. But he is dry and warm where Harry is wet and cold. He cannot wake his human, but his human’s heartbeat is strong and his own limbs grow too heavy to try. He surrounds him, instead. Stretching out and gathering the human against himself. His human is like a torch against his fur, warming him, and Harry is safety. He will keep his human safe until he wakes. 

_ At least,  _ the little bit of his own human consciousness thinks from the bottom of a long, dark tunnel inside of him,  _ hopefully they will both wake. _

— 

It’s still the early morning when Harry reaches consciousness, the sun hasn’t yet risen and his fur is crusted with ice. 

He realises that he’s awoken because his human is stirring, and Harry noses at him anxiously. 

His human’s hands tighten in Harry’s fur, and Harry whines, licking at his face. His human says something, the words lost to Harry, but the look of shock recognizable.

He stands and Harry stands with him, his legs shaky but strong enough to work. His human is safe! He kept him safe!

He follows his human back toward the palace, back toward home, barely noticing where the chains once again slap at the back of his hind legs, the area already raw and bloody. They move slowly, his human seems stiff, but Harry doesn’t mind. He keeps nosing at his human’s hands until finally he places on in the warm fur of his back. That’s better. Feeling connected is better. His human speaks some more, and maybe Harry will realise tomorrow what he says, but probably not.

They go inside and wander dark halls. Harry has no sense of direction now, only following where he is led, but recognises the room they enter. It smells of himself. It’s his bedroom.

His human climbs onto his bed and Harry follows, bouncing a little. The room is warm and smells of him and now will also smell of his human. This is good!

They slip into unconsciousness again, but now in warmth and safety.

— — — 

When Harry wakes in the late hours of the morning, he is sore, bloody and absolutely naked, albeit his bits are covered with a duvet (likely not of his own doing).

Louis is sitting at the head of his bed, watching him closely.

“Have I killed anyone?” is the first thing Harry croaks as his memories start returning to him.

Louis doesn’t answer for a bit, and eventually hedges with, “Maybe.” At Harry’s expression, though, he hastens to add, “But not in a bad way.”

Simon had been fourth in line to the throne, as he had always told people.

How he had found out about the Madness would probably always remain a mystery, but there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that his plan had been to let Harry loose on the palace and hope that at the end of the day he would be the one remaining.

Under different circumstances, perhaps it would have worked. But since he is also, posthumously, under suspicion for the King’s death, perhaps not. 

“Your mum’s been in already,” Louis says. “There have been some confiscated CCTV footage and a new rumor of a wolf spotted in the heart of London, but she told me I’m not fired and I have been forbidden from quitting.”

Harry frowns. He would not like Louis to quit. 

“She also said something about the  _ first gay royal wedding, _ which seemed a bit soon but who am I to say no to the queen?”

Harry hides his face in a pillow.

“I mean, it’s an easy way to solve the problem about not having to talk about my career,” Louis continues. “Just marry the person you work with, that’s something that’s never gone wrong for anyone else, right?”

Harry groans.

“And I know I’ll be set for life, although it does seem unethical for my husband to be paying me so I might need to go to HR about that—”

“Do I get a say in this?” Harry squeaks.

“You got your say last night when you rescued me from a potential drowning I think,” Louis says, and then his hand is soft and warm on Harry’s shoulder. “Which, I appreciate by the way. I did think you were fit right from the start, for the record.”

“Same,” mumbles Harry.

“But I would very much like to have our first kiss  _ before _ the next time I have to face your mother and hear you explain to her how you killed a man for me.”

“Yes please,” says Harry, and he grabs Louis’ shoulder to pull him down with him. 

The kiss is good, for a first kiss. Harry has no other experience, but Louis seems to know what he wants and Harry’s perfectly happy to follow where he leads. 

— 

The next full moon is a tense one, as Louis locks the door behind them in the room of isolation, but the throne is gone. There is instead a linen’s closet worth of bedding spread out across the floor. It’s a dangerous experiment, but one that pays off when Harry trots over to Louis, licks a great stripe across his face, and then nearly knocks him over in excitement. 

It’s a happy ending, really. 


End file.
